


Misanthrope

by symphorophilia (klismaphilia)



Series: Requests, Prompt Fills and Gifts [8]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood As Lube, Bloodplay, Crying, Gaslighting, Inadequate Lubrication, Insomnia, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Sexual Violence, Silence Kink, Stalking, Verbal Humiliation, forced bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 02:04:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9470555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/symphorophilia
Summary: Armitage makes it to the bed before he drops, like a rock, atop the covers, rolling over onto his side with a sharp groan.He's asleep in mere seconds. It doesn’t even occur to him that he didn’t lock the door.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ballvvasher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballvvasher/gifts), [Larrant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larrant/gifts).



> for @ballvvasher and @PaperKnights, my fellow trash of all trash.
> 
> once again, written at about 1 or 2 am. a kind of fill for [this](http://kyluxhardkinks.tumblr.com/post/154230551485/prompt-involving-nonconsensual-sex-below-the) prompt, but with an added flair I suppose.
> 
> Please heed the Archive Warnings. Extremely dark territory. :)

Armitage has never gotten much sleep.

Most nights, the thirty-four year old is perfectly content to stay awake, a laptop propped open in front of him, until the earliest hours of the morning have come (and on occasion, gone.) He’s a connoisseur of all things unusual, eerie and beautiful, and the silence of his flat is too often a comfort. Hux enjoys the faint hum of a fan whirring in the background of his cramped bedroom, the soft rustle of curtains from the barely-cracked window. The walls are overcast in a lovely faint, white glow, moonlight striping over his bed and allowing him a moment to bask in _beauty._

It has always been his most beloved indulgence, a tranquility which is unrivaled through the pass of a regular day.

During business hours, Hux finds himself bored; a monotonous day-in, day-out job, pressing papers and filing folders in a small cubicle, clicking through reports on a screen without pause. Of course, he could easily choose to be errant, to _miss_ work, with his outrageous number of vacation days that remain unspent at the end of each yearly cycle.

Phasma, of course, is always one to give him a nudge and tell him he needs a “pastime.”

 _Pastimes are better spent while on vacation,_ she reminds him, her head sticking up from the other side of a half-wall slid between their workspace. _Just a day, Armie. It’ll do some good for you. Maybe get some sun on your skin for once._

Hux never held much idea of how he should respond to that.

He usually settles for a sharp glare and a quick _‘don’t call me Armie,’_ before sliding his headphones back over his ears. The things are practically ancient, but they do their work well enough, blocking out the incessant chatter and keeping him from his own impulse to lash out, or god forbid, _yell_ at someone. There was a point when he had preferred yelling-- now making himself known was more of a hassle than anything. Especially when anything out of the ordinary could very easily catch the eyes of that _capricious bastard_ Ben Solo from Accounting.

Today is different.

He’s been unbelievably tired all morning, the faint ringing in the back of his skull sending Armitage’s usually immaculate brain into a frenzy. Equations which usually are solved in a matter of seconds become blurred and impossible to puzzle through. He stumbles to read words off of the report currently sat on top of his desk, the red pen usually used for revisions tumbling from his grasp-- _fuck._

There was no way he would be prepared for his interview. Not with shaky hands and a throbbing skull.

He collects his briefcase, jams the papers scheduled for later that day into the black container rather unceremoniously, leaves his headphones on his desk, tucked behind his computer.

“Phasma,” he mumbles. The woman’s head shoots up, her white-blonde hair messy, eyes betraying her surprise before she asks,

“Yeah? What’s up?”

“Can you tell Snoke I went home sick?” He questions, arms drawn closer to his already slight frame, suddenly uncomfortable. He coughs, shakes the anxiety from his mind as her lips twitch up into a smirk.

Hux fixes his usual scowl back in place. “Not vacation. _Sick._ That’s an order.” The nape of his neck is slightly worn over with sweat, palms clammy as he clasps them tighter to the briefcase and turns toward the open door. He’s memorized every detail of this building-- grey and black walls, partially framed in metal, the long, tile hallway, an unfortunate looking plant beside the elevator, seventeen floors to the bottom…

His head spins. _Exhaustion._ Come to think of it, he isn’t really sure whether or not he’s slept recently. Had to be… Tuesday? Monday. Monday, he thinks.

Skipping out on rest suddenly seems a _ridiculous idea,_ a mistake that Armitage can hardly believe he made in the first place. His father would be ashamed of him.

His wristwatch ticks slowly; it reads in an illuminated set of numbers _2:17._ 2:17 _pm,_ a full four hours and forty-three minutes remaining in this shift.

_Reports. First thing, Armitage, or you won’t even deserve that promotion, Strategic Consultant or not._

 

* * *

 

As strange as it was, Armitage has always enjoyed waking to the drift of air along his naked back, his pale skin chilled and done over with goosebumps, a slight tremble as he shifts, rolling onto his back to gaze up at a uniquely painted ceiling. He’s always been a fan of the quiet hours, those moments between one and four in the morning, when the world is still and everything seems dead.

Perhaps it is strange-- strange that he enjoys this ever-present quiet, strange that he enjoys his own nudity, once he is left alone to his own devices. A part of him thinks to blame it on the Academy, where he’d been forced to bunk with three other boys. There was always _noise,_ snoring or the sound of someone scribbling out an assignment, footsteps in the hallway leading to the bathroom.

He didn’t miss it. Not the Academy, not _roommates,_ and certainly not people. Hux didn’t like people-- never had, really. They were incorrigible, two-faced and _incompetent,_ apparently unable to do as much as come up with a single original idea. He found himself endlessly disparaged by the constant drivel at the office, on the bus he usually took to and from his home in the city…

As the metro comes to a screeching halt before a stop on the mid-East side of town, Hux takes a moment to breathe, smoothing down his dress shirt and stiff jeans (still tight on his body, yet primly-pressed, business casual at its best). He can easily manage the two blocks back to his apartment building, the three sets of stairs to his floor, without passing out. He’s _stronger_ than he appears, of course, stronger than his unfortunate, human _needs._

His knees tremble once he’s back on solid pavement. He grasps the briefcase tighter, places a foot in front of the other. Pauses, checks his watch. _2:49._

Alright. He hasn’t fallen asleep yet.

 

* * *

 

He manages the walk with a fair amount of ease, though it’s a bit difficult when every inch of his frail body is screaming for nothing more than to _lie down,_ when his eyelids keep fluttering with the strain of keeping them open. It’s a task all on its own, just to pull a set of keys from the organized case, and Armitage fumbles; the jangle of metal hitting the floor is jarring, and he’s uncertain whether he can even bend to pick them up, staring dumbly down at the keyring.

A hand--not his own-- reaches down, swipes the glinting silver ring up, waves them in front of Hux’s face. “Dropped something.”

“Yes, well.” Hux snatches them from the stranger, not bothering to look at his face. He jams the key into his lock, turns it until it clicks, then manages to maneuver it back out without letting it stick. “Thank you.”

“You should be more careful,” the man hums. It’s a strange way of saying it, the tone almost menacing, as though Armitage really _should_ be careful.

He’s too tired to care.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” the ginger snaps, and slams the door shut behind him. He hurriedly kicks off his shoes, fumbles his way out from his pants, drops the keys next to his briefcase on a chair inside the small kitchenette. Dreary, he unbuttons his crisp white shirt, shrugs it off of his shoulders and kicks it out of the way. The room is hot, _smoldering,_ and he doesn’t have the time to turn on his fan. The only thing he’s capable of at this moment is incoherency; he wants to _sleep._

Yes. Glorious, _wonderful_ sleep-- the idea has never sounded better.

Armitage makes it to the bed before he drops, like a rock, atop the covers, rolling over onto his side with a sharp groan. He stretches a bit, languid, tugging the small, grey throw over his lower half to preserve his modesty (though it doesn’t particularly matter. He’s alone, here, like he prefers.)

He’s dead to the world within seconds.

It doesn’t even occur to him that he didn’t lock the door.

 

* * *

 

 

The room is utterly, unmistakably quiet. In fact, the light, airy breathing that is emanating from Armitage’s sore throat sounds _loud,_ even _cacophonous,_ when it comes down to it. The lights were off, a stillness that is surreal enough to purvey the sense of foreignness settled over the man who is still curled in a ball above his blankets.

He is, Kylo finds, rather _sweet_ like this. Hugging his knees like a child, his head half-burrowed into the pillow, face obscured from view. It’s something not far out of a horror movie, the _innocent-looking_ damsel in distress about to fall victim to the killer standing behind her. But _oh,_ this isn’t about killing, not even when he so desperately wishes for it-- no, it _couldn’t_ be, not when Hux is so _open,_ so bare, an untouched flower merely waiting to be taken.

Even Armitage’s mouth is pretty like this, soft pink lips that are parted just enough to see the outline of his tongue. His red hair is messy, no longer stiff with gel but loose around his face. It _softens_ him, makes him look far younger than he usually does--

Still, Kylo _knows._ Hux is ugly, underneath all of this; perpetually _disgusted_ and always in a bitchy mood. Never apologizing, never responding if he doesn’t find it convenient; a workaholic with such _inane_ ideals that his condescension is quite laughable. Kylo can’t even name the number of times he’d seen the man in the elevator, on a coffee break, nearly shoving past him without comment, sneering once anyone dared say anything.

It was a shame, really, that Kylo had always found him pretty. A shame that Hux was so _self-righteous_ underneath that porcelain skin, the soft contours of his skinny body. In fact, Armitage was the very _definition_ of a twink, easily breakable, easy to imagine on his knees…

He didn’t deserve that promotion.

He didn’t _deserve_ to be gazed upon so fondly, to be _listened_ to, when he was so impossibly useless. Hux wasn’t the one who was _important,_ not the one who was slated to take over the company upon Snoke’s retirement, and yet he has the _audacity_ to claim authority over Kylo? To call him a petulant _child,_ and _incapable?_

He couldn’t even be bothered to look at Kylo when he had _so kindly_ picked up the keys he’d dropped.

The clock strikes _2:00_ am _._

Kylo’s hand closes over Hux’s mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

Armitage snaps his head up.

Or, he tries to. He tries, but he can’t, not when there’s a pressure, heavy and thick across his mouth, a musk that permeates his nose as his bloodshot eyes fall on the shuttered window. He pauses, unable to understand why he feels so-- violated. Somewhere, in his sleep-addled mind, he knows that something is--

_Wrong._

_Impossibly wrong,_ and it strikes him that the pressure across his face is a hand, smothering him to the point where his breathing is ragged. He feels the need to rasp, needs to gather himself because he can’t _think,_ there’s no air, and-- his arm flies up, an attempt to shove back against the intruder, wild and feral as he sinks teeth into the black leather of the glove, kicks his legs out-- he’s _vulnerable,_ too vulnerable like this. Red alarms are blaring behind his eyelids, _run run run run,_ and he can’t, not when hands attach to his arms and wrench them over his head roughly, lock them to the headboard as he’s shoved onto his side.

The quiet is suddenly deafening.

There’s a thud of something on the mattress behind him-- something _big,_ and hard, and Armitage doesn’t have even a chance to scream before his cheeks are being pried apart, two fingers shoved into him without preamble. They’re spit-slick, rushed, and his hole burns with the intrusion, rim rippling from within and clenching tight about the fingers. The curl of broken nails against his walls is similar to having needles shoved deep in his core, made to cause him the worst pain imaginable without allowing a swift death. His lips part, wanting nothing more than to scream, call for help-- _anything_ to save him, anything to prevent--

The gag is thrust into his mouth and he chokes. It’s a wadded up ball of cloth, but it seals his sounds deep inside, forces Armitage’s trachea to spasm rapidly, his head tilting up, slamming back again and again and--

_Thwack._

His skull slams against the headboard and he cries out, his muted shrieks barely audible from within the confines of the cloth gag. The pressure at his hole is greater, fingers scissoring and he’s screaming, trying to scream, trying to _fight back,_ _it hurts, it_ ** _hurts_** _, please don’t, please, I didn’t do anything, I didn’t mean to, get out of me, not inside, not anymore!_

“Shh,” the voice tells him, softly. “Don’t struggle, pretty thing. Your Knight’s here to take care of you now.”

It’s _malicious,_ it’s _depraved,_ just like whatever disgusting madman it belongs to. Hux shudders, spits and only ends up having the cloth slip further into the cavern of his throat, _choking._ There are _teeth,_ dug deep into his shoulder, marking him, another hand roaming along his torso-- _“you’re so little, aren’t you? Fucking twink,”--_ pinching at his nipples, already hardened by the coolness of air on his bare flesh.

The fingers stretching his hole pause, contemplating, and then _ram_ directly into his prostate. It isn’t pleasant, not in the way it is when he-- when he opens himself, when he uses his toys. No, this _stings,_ stings and reeks of perversion, and Hux wails, drawing in on himself as his hips slam forward into the bed. _Stop, stop, stop, stop--!_

Wild, frenzied cries echo through the makeshift gag as he attempts to shout. Scream profanities, scream _apologies, help help me please--_

_\--don’t let him, don’t let him take me--_

_\--rapist, please-- he’s too big_

_-no he’s everywhere stop it, stop, it’s wrong!---_

Armitage breaks. His eyes are wet now, brimming with an excess of tears that dribble down his flushed cheeks, his skin already bright and pink wherever those hands grab at it. He _moans_ as a hand kneads the globes of his ass, unintentionally voicing something akin to _approval._ He can’t move-- can’t _move,_ he’s trapped, trapped with a man on top of him, _oh god, he’s going to fuck me, he’s--_

“You’re _hard,”_ the voice says appreciatively, and Armitage goes rigid.

No.

 _No,_ he can’t possibly be…

A quiver runs through his entire body, down his crawling spine, the nerves in his skin all suddenly alight and screaming for blood. An erection is pushing against the comforter beneath him, and his assailant’s hand has grabbed hold of it, _taken_ him in a rough grip with calloused fingers. Precum beads at the tip of his length and a series of pitiful whimpers leave Hux’s body. He can’t have gotten hard, he wouldn’t--

His body would never betray him like _this._ Oh, he’d known how weak he was, but he wasn’t _this,_ he wasn’t-- wasn’t a _whore,_ to be tied down a played with, he couldn’t be…

_But you are._

The fingers that had somehow slid out from inside of him plunge back in, three-knuckles deep. Armitage screams, _wails_ at the penetration-- he slams his hips back, twisting his body the best he can but he’s not even capable of shifting properly, not when every _twist_ pushes those fingers deeper inside, _splits_ him open.

That big hand smoothes through his messy hair, carding along the ginger locks with something that almost smacks of affection, a low chuckle given by the attacker. He’s… he’s _pleased,_ and that means danger, that means it’s going to happen and--

Hux _knows._ He’s suddenly forced into his own dread, numb and empty and with stones in his gut, buried deep inside. The muscles of his entrance contract, but they’re easily parted, and something crooks _right,_ but so wrong at the same time, and he’s _leaking,_ leaking out of his molested hole, dripping…

“Did I tear that little hole of yours?” The rapist-- no, Hux is _not_ a victim, not like this, he-- _no, the rapist,_ hisses at him, pinching at his bony hips. “You’re so fragile, aren’t you, Armitage? Has anyone ever been inside you before? Wouldn’t it be funny if I was your _first?”_

The comment spreads through his veins, like ice that settles in his spinal column, and he’s finally still. He sinks, lower, unable to do anything other than accept his fate-- this _is_ his first, with another. His _first,_ and he’s going to be used, be made into a receptacle for a filthy _monster,_ a creature who came here only to watch him suffer.

The gag is pried from his mouth. Armitage tries to snap, to shout, _you animal, you’re sick, you’re a sick fuck, I hope you die, I hope you die and I’ll kill you myself for this, I’ll_ **_end_ ** _you!_

Instead, the barrel of a gun lays against the side of his skull, dragged down his back in a mimic of a lover’s caress. “I want you to moan for me, beautiful. Can you do that?”

Hux nods his head automatically, as though he’s merely a robot, a program that’s kicked in after the excessive trauma.

The butt of the gun _slams_ into his shoulder and he cries, biting his lip until a salty tang of blood erupts in his mouth and soaks his tongue through. “P-p- _please,”_ he says. “Don’t… d-don’t…”

Something ghosts along his open center again, teasing that now unsanct spot, defiled for good. Hux feels a thumb flick the rivulets away from his eyes, like he was merely being _comforted,_ rather than experiencing an act of violence so horrid he wouldn’t be likely to ever forget it.

“Just let go,” the voice compels, and he _wants to,_ so bad.

Except he can’t. He _can’t,_ because there’s something being forced inside him, _forced,_ deep and wide and coveting, filling him completely, and it _twitches_ inside him, throbbing and hot and nudging against everything that’s making Hux feel good, and _I’m going to puke, I’m gonna, can’t hold it._

The rapist pulls back and slams forward, balls deep.

Hux _screeches._

He wants to _die,_ wants to, anything would be better than this, and he’s _bleeding_ all over his assailant’s cock, even though it was slick with lube when he’d pushed in, and all he can feel are his own walls clutched tight, bleeding out with the extensive tearing from within. And all the _vile bastard_ says is, _“aww, lubricating for me, Armie?”_ tracing along his back again, mouthing at his neck and his shoulders and every spot of skin he can touch.

Tomorrow he won’t leave this room, no, not wearing _those_ marks, not where anyone could see. No, no he won’t _leave,_ he was _assaulted,_ he’s broken, he’s useless, he’s being _ripped in half,_ each thrust punctuating broken whines and groans from Hux with a difficult breath. And he’s never liked his first name anyway, never liked that _nickname,_ but it’s ruined for him now, he’ll hear it and he’ll think of _this,_ being raped and--

 _“Please,_ ” he tries again, faint. “I-I can’t, you c-can’t make me, I-I… I have to work, I have to… I just wanted to _sleep,_ I was tired, I w-wanted to _sleep,_ I wanted to be better, I was a-a… a _virgin,_ please, j-just call a doctor, I’ll be good, I don’t--”

Hux can hardly understand his own voice, a soft series of rambled notes, high pitched as each was taken from him by a brutal thrust. The blood is dulling the pain, and he’s torn, but he can hardly feel it, can hardly… it’s _better,_ that way, if he dies, even if it’s by bleeding from his ruined hole, he…

And then he’s suddenly _soaked,_ and completely full, and there’s something leaking from him and he realizes with horror that it’s the man’s _cum._ He’s been ruined, he’s been _filled_ by somebody’s seed, claimed like the-- like the _slut_ he must be, must be to have this…

“I’ll call someone for you,” the man rasps, touching his sore, puffy rim once again. Armitage isn’t hard, not anymore; there’s release across his abdomen, sticky on the bed below him, even worse than…

The man presses a kiss to the part of his hair. “It’s okay, baby. The pain will go away soon, I promise it will. You don’t have to keep crying.”

No, he doesn’t, but he can’t stop. The tears are stuck to him now, drying on his face, and he’s not even that upset, not anymore, he doesn’t know _how_ to be. The fingers on his hole stretch him a bit, and there’s a hot breath on him, as though the man is _inspecting--_

“It’s not bad. You’ll be able to work,” the rapist assures him, tousling his hair. “God, you’re _pretty._ Submissive, like this, _pliant._ I knew you would be. You just needed someone to show you what you really wanted.”

Hux nods. He doesn’t know how to disagree.

“Go back to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning,” the man continues to soothe him, and it’s… it’s _gentle._ He’s so… so _good._

“Promise?” Hux asks, once again left to his delirium. His vision is fading, and it’s fading fast. He can barely see…

_Sleep._

 

* * *

 

 

Hux is too sore, when he finally comes to. He’s sore _everywhere,_ inside and out, and there’s fluid between his thighs still, sliding down the back of his legs. But he’s _alive,_ he’s-- he’s _alive,_ not dead, didn’t bleed out, and he can see, and…

His stomach churns, then drops suddenly, and he’s launching over the side of his bed, bile flooding the inside of his mouth as he retches, then _hurls,_ the barely-existent contents of his stomach hitting the ground in a rush. The remains drip down his chin, staining the only unmarred part of his being, and Armitage pulls in on himself, falls onto his back…

_I hate him._

_I hate-- me._

_I hate being… alone?_

There’s an inexplicable need, overwhelming, to be comforted. Armitage longs for a warm pair of arms around him, a soft voice, someone who knows what to do about-- about _this._ He wants to be held, to be told that he’s… he’s still _human,_ that he isn’t a whore for letting a man fuck him, not when he swore he’d never have sex…

The watch reads _11:15_ am.

There’s a series of unread text messages on his phone when he manages to thumb open the lock. The latest is from Phasma:

_[7/18/16] 7:36 AM: You’re late. Are you finally going to use your vacation days?_

The earlier messages are from a number that reads _Unknown._

 _[7/18/16] 5:15 AM_ : _Thanks for the papers, Armitage._

_[7/18/16] 6:30 AM: You know, I keep thinking about you today. Can’t seem to get you out my head._

_[7/18/16] 6:33 AM: God, you were so tight. I’ve been imagining that for so long._

_[7/18/16] 6:37 AM: I keep thinking about the expression you made when you started clinging to me after, asking if you were alright. You looked so scared, Armie, fuck._

_[7/18/16] 6:45 AM: You’re so pretty when you cry._

_[7/18/16] 10:22 AM: Anyway, I got the promotion. Perhaps a celebration is in order. Tonight, maybe… your place?_

Hux’s blood runs cold. His eyes falter on the space between his bedroom and the kitchen; there is nothing on the floor. His clothes, from the previous day, his _briefcase, that fucker,_ his--

His _keys._


End file.
